


Punk in a Trenchcoat

by You_Light_The_Sky



Series: Consulting Rogers [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bucky is like a potty mouth Watson, Consulting Detective AU, Gore, M/M, Mentions of Homophobic Slurs, PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Seriously I love Skinny!Steve, Steve is like a nice insecure Holmes, dead children, mentions of albeism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/pseuds/You_Light_The_Sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Bucky’s an injured Army Vet, angry with the world until he meets this puny (brilliant) kid who thinks of himself as a detective for those that can’t afford it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punk in a Trenchcoat

**Author's Note:**

> For an Anon on Tumblr who wanted Steve and Bucky as Watson and Holmes. Here's... something like that. A first case fic if you will.
> 
> The police procedures and consulting detective thing are NOT realistic. Just me dabbling with the Sherlock formula and having fun with it.
> 
> Warnings: ooc characters probably, lots of swearing via Bucky, lots of PTSD and self-loathing and graphic violence maybe later probably?

“How does your arm feel?” his therapist asks in a high pitched, sing-song way.

Bucky has the urge to punch something. “It’s not an arm.”

“Prosthetic,” Doctor Lang amends. “Though I hope you come to think of it as your new arm. It’s amazing how far Stark Technology has come in the medical field.”

“Right. Course.” His metal fingers make grooves that nearly go through the wooden chair. The soft lining covering said chair looks as if it’s been clawed off. He’s given up trying to pick up mugs with this _thing_ anymore. He just breaks them.

Lang frowns at him and Bucky knows what she’s thinking. Be grateful. There are people who have it worse than you do and have to struggle to live a normal life and Bucky _knows_ this, _damn it_ , and doesn’t that make him hate himself more but he can’t help but think that this _arm_ is freakish and he can’t live a normal life even if he tried. So yeah, he’s an ungrateful bastard but he almost wants her to yell it at him so that he can hear it.

 _Say it,_ he silently dares her, _say it to my face._

But Lang gets that stupid pitying glint to her eyes that makes Bucky stare furiously at his lap.

“It’s alright,” she says gently. “It takes time.”

“Yeah, well, how much?” Bucky snaps.

Lang sighs again and he hates how it grates across his ears. “It’s different for every person.”

“Yeah, well that’s not good enough!”

He stands up and the side table falls over from his movement. Glass shatters on the floor, marbles rolling all over poor strangled looking bamboo roots that bleed out water and shards.

“Shit,” Bucky kneels to pick up the pieces. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

The marble in his fingers cracks open.

“I think,” Doctor Lang says, pale and resigned, “we should end the session tonight, Sergeant Barnes. I’ll see you next week.”

“But—”

“Next week, Sergeant Barnes,” and Bucky grits his teeth together before he turns on his heels and rushes out the door.

-

New York used to be the place for him, or at least, the old Bucky thought it was. He’d run away from his fifth foster home, picked up some Russian and German here and there and then rushed off to the city. He used to think that he had it all, that he’d make it big and live rich with the ladies hanging off his arms as long as he played in the right circles. As soon as he was in New York, he worked as a mechanic in any garage that would take him before he signed up for the army, sure that he’d return unharmed with a uniform to impress the gals and the men.

(What a fucking idiot he was.)

He can’t even look at the bright lights and flashing signs without remembering that stranger with his face, all foolish with a girl kissing up his neck, wasting his hours away on booze and stupid clubs. He barely recognizes that swarmy jerk and can’t bear to be back in that stranger’s old haunts without wanting to pull his hair out and punch the glass staring back. And shouts, shouts in the distance from neighbours arguing and alarms bring back the gunfire and then Bucky will see desert sand again, good men dying while Bucky—

No, no, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Screw group therapy.

“I’m fine on my own,” he snaps at Doctor Lang constantly.

She sighs, tucking her hair back. “Alright. It takes time but I do hope you’ll open up to someone soon. It will honestly help.”

He just stares.

But every fucking time she gives that pitying smile and Bucky just wants to walk out ( _so why don’t you_?) “Until that day,” she says, “we’ll try to introduce you to some different coping mechanisms you can try. How about a blog?”

Bucky hasn’t written anything down in that blog. He’s tried describing his breakfast but he can’t recall the tastes (can’t recall much of anything of this monotony. Everything blurs. He eats because… because its routine and microwave dinners are easy and… fuck.) Instead Bucky smashes the keyboard down with his fists, letters smashing together on the page in indecipherable ribbons of text on a crashing course to oblivion. He just… he just feels so damn _angry_ all the time and no amount of writing is gonna fix that!

Why is he even here in New York still? He can’t remember why he thought he loved this damn city in the first place. The city is a mocking mechanical puppet show where Bucky sees shadows of strings everywhere he turns and he feels like he’s the only one breathing except what’s the point of doing that if all he does is… is exist?

-

Bucky stares at the ceiling again. Thoughts blank. Mind blank. He glances at the alarm clock. One o’clock AM. He looks back at the grey ceiling, at the yellowed constricting walls, and his lonely closet. Bucky lets out a growl and gets up from the floor, folds his blankets back on the bed and pulls on his boots and jacket before he ventures outside.

Another walk until dawn then.

He probably knows New York’s alleys like the back of his hand now with all his wanderings. He never knows where he’s going, only runs. Even when his stupid metal _thing_ gets sore, he runs because if he doesn’t he’ll scream.

Night is the best time for running. There’s hardly anyone out and if some stupid ass tries to mess with him Bucky looks menacing enough that they back off pretty quickly. He’s left alone to breathe the night air and if he runs fast enough then—

Something moves at the corner of his eye Bucky sees a little shape dart forth, barking angrily at three imposing figures that are kicking at some poor thing that’s curled up against itself. Bucky freezes, watching the little dog shrink in smaller and smaller within itself and he— _Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 13 437 788, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes 13 437 788_ —can’t seem to— _James Buchanan Barnes 13 437 788_ —move— _Barnes 13 437 788_ —just—

“Hey get away from her!” someone shouts and Bucky blinks as some skinny punk in a trench coat way too big for him slams into one of the thugs and throws a punch at the one next to him. Bucky’s jaw drops as the third thug slams his beefy pale fist into the little guy’s stomach and the kid drops down but he doesn’t stay down even though part of Bucky is screaming for the stupid punk to stay still. Walk away.

Instead, the punk rolls over, swooping the smaller puppy up in his thin arms and just uses his body to cover that same puppy up as the thugs circle back around and begin kicking the kid instead.

“Stupid twink!” they jeer and before Bucky knows it, he’s slamming his own fist in their faces and he can hear bones cracking.

Thug #1—white, twenties, tattooed—stumbles back, blood dribbling down his teeth before he sways back and falls over.

“Dude, what the hell?!” Thug #2 goes to help him while Thug #3—white, later twenties, bald—charges at Bucky. But Bucky sidesteps him and goes for the gut, watching in satisfaction as Thug #3 has to keel over and throw up.

“Fuck,” Thug #2 practically hyperventilates, stumbling back while holding Thug #1. “Fuck, you’re a monster, man!”

And Bucky just gives them a feral smirk before the two of them are running away, running into the streets without turning back.

“Hey wait!” Thug #3 stumbles after them, trying to dodge the growling dog Bucky saw barking at them earlier. The dog—a hug black beast like a wolf, all shaggy and scarred—bites at Thug #3’s leg and Bucky can’t help but laugh as the dog barks and Thug #3 high tails it out of there.

Bucky stands, for a moment breathing in heavily in tune with the wolfish dog before he turns back to the little guy.

Who is wobbling. Standing actually. On legs that look like they’ll collapse at any moment. Bucky curses under his breath as he moves towards him.

“Whoa, take it easy, man. Let me help,” he says, or rather, croaks. He hasn’t really talked to another human being besides Doctor Lang and the cashiers at the grocery store.

“No, no… I’m fine,” the punk says quickly, his arms still curled protectively around the puppy. “I’m fine,” he repeats, red staining his teeth and it occurs to Bucky that this punk barely looks nineteen, all light blond hair and pink lips with long eye lashes behind thick black rectangular glasses.

“Um,” says Bucky, distracted by the blue.

“I had ‘em on the ropes,” he insists, looking down at the quivering mess in his arms. The wolfish dog is hovering around the punk’s legs, sniffing protectively but not biting, thank god.

“Are you kidding me?! You were being beaten to a pulp!”

The punk shrugs and says calmly, “All according to plan.”

Bucky stares at him, unable to believe the shit he’s hearing. “What _._ ”

“Well,” the punk smiles and it’s so damned earnest that Bucky has to blink. Several times. “Those guys are the _owners_ ,” the kid frowns, “of Blue here and Navy,” he nods to the puppy and the wolf-dog respectively. “They abuse their pets and I was tailing them for proof.”

“I… _what._ ”

“I heard from my contacts that they like to beat their pets and film it here so I set up cameras over this area, see?” the kid points and a civilian might not be able to see them but Bucky spots the tiny glints of several miniscule lenses, posted strategically at every angle of the alleyway.

“I… who the hell are you?”

“Steve Rogers,” the punk nods, looking a bit apprehensive as he stares up at Bucky through those huge glasses.

“Wait so you have these cameras here and you just… just let these dogs get beat so you could get your footage?” Bucky says dangerously and okay, he didn’t realize he was this pissed.

Rogers, though, doesn’t look scared at all which… never happens when people see Bucky angry. Instead, Rogers looks contrite and honestly miserable.

“I meant to come sooner,” he says quietly, “for Blue and Navy. Meant to intervene after the first punches but I got held up by some drunk idiots harassing a lady,” he frowns. “Anyways, I got the footage. I’m going to take care of these guys. Come on, Navy.”

Bucky stares at a moment in disbelief before he scowls. “Hey wait, you’re bleeding—” _and possibly delirious,_ Bucky doesn’t say, “—you should get to a hospital!”

“I’m good,” says Rogers, who just avoids walking into a trash can as he turns the corner. _Idiot._ Clearly some concussion or internal bleeding going on there and he’s probably going to walk into a moving truck if Bucky leaves him alone…!

“Just wait!” Bucky storms over, determined that the kid see reason but as he reaches the next street he sees a black limo roll up to the curb just as Rogers reaches it and Rogers seems to argue with someone for a moment before he sighs and gets into the limo with both dogs.

All like the scene of some freaking spy movie. Except with skinny kids that save puppies. And use spy tech—is this even _real_?!

Bucky has no idea but it doesn’t’ occur to him until he’s washing his face in the bathroom that he’s been grinning the whole way home. Huh.

-

That afternoon, after yet another rejection from a job interview (not qualified, need more experience, _oh did you mean ‘too violent’?!_ Bucky wants to yell) he stares at this blog, too angry to type. _Nothing fucking happens to me_ , he wants to smash against the keyboard. _I’m a fucking mess, I’m ready to explode, there’s nothing except—_

He remembers blue eyes, dorky glasses and a kid too stupid to back down from a fight and Bucky finds his lips turning up again.

 _The Punk in a Trenchcoat,_ he types and before he knows it, he’s typed up over six thousand words of prose on the subject and he finds that he likes it. He’s no Mark Twain (honestly, one of the only ‘classic’ authors he’s read… comics are way better but he sold his off a lifetime ago) but he thinks his language is honest. Sure, he’s always been crap with poetry unless it was to charm girls (but those days are gone and if he could see those flirty conversations again on paper, he’d crumple them up and toss them into fire.) But he likes this.

He doesn’t even care that he’s just described Rogers with blue hues like the open sky—honest, naïve. It’s true. And these words are _Bucky’s_ and he saves the entry as ‘private’ silently daring Doctor Lang to try reading it.

It’s Bucky’s. Just Bucky’s.

-

A few days pass where Doctor Lang looks disappointed that he hasn’t made progress on his blog before she makes other suggestions like cooking or knitting. Bucky is internally gleeful because he does have one entry but it’s his and he doesn’t feel like sharing.

He keeps going to different job interviews, dreading retail or worse… a desk job. He thinks bodyguard or security wouldn’t be bad until he recalls how bored most security guys look if they work in malls or something. Bucky doesn’t have patience for that shit. Besides, it’s probably not safe for people to be around him. No one would be able to stand him and his shit load of issues.

He’s on this depressing train of thought when someone smacks into him and Bucky is ready to rip the bastard’s head off when he hears, “Stop him! He stole my purse!” from a tall woman in the distance. No one is doing anything, just going about their distance and just as Bucky is gonna run after the bastard, another shape bumps into him, wheezing and looking up at Bucky with startled eyes before the guy gasps, “…Catch him…!”

Bucky pretty much freezes. It’s him. That guy. Rogers. Looking like he’s going to collapse.

But Rogers doesn’t stop to chat. He keeps running after the thief though he’s lagging and that’s when Bucky rushes past him, grabbing the thief in a headlock long enough for Rogers to catch up and pull out some handcuffs ( _seriously?!_ ) from his pocket to cuff the thief to the stop sign.

“…Thanks…” Rogers wheezes, reaching his hands into his oversized pockets to pull out an inhaler.

“You have asthma?! Geez, why’d you chase after this bastard if you were gonna fall over?!”

Rogers blinks, “Well _someone_ had to.”

Bucky opens his mouth but nothing comes out because he… _is this guy even real_? But before he can articulate his frustration (or even understand w _hy_ he’s so frustrated in the first place) the woman comes up to them both with teary eyes and Bucky watches in amazement as Rogers takes the purse from the thief and gives it to her with a soft smile.

“Here you go, miss.”

“Thank you so much!” she replies in high baritone and it occurs to Bucky why more people didn’t help her, makes him want to throw trash at all of them walking by.

Rogers’s face, if possible, softens even more. “It was no problem. Besides, this jerk here did all the work,” he gestures to Bucky. Why that stupid endearing punk—!

Bucky tries to put on his best smile but he thinks he comes off more as a deranged possible murderer (especially with the unkempt long hair and bloodshot eyes) as the woman just gives him a wary grin. She thanks them both though and gives Rogers a hug and a hesitant handshake to Bucky, which he prefers because the last time someone tried to hug him—some drunk idiot in the street—he nearly broke their ribs so… yeah.

When she’s gone, Rogers glares at their captured thief.

“I hope you send her a written apology.”

“What?! To that trans—”

“Well,” Rogers says casually, “I guess you’ll have a great time getting acquainted with Officer Carter then. I already texted her. She’ll be here to pick you up in… oh… five minutes? Have a _swell_ day.” Rogers smiles so wide that Bucky can’t help but laugh.

Rogers stops and stares at him. “Oh. Uh…”

“Who even says _swell_ anymore?” Bucky teases.

“What?” Rogers regains his innocent expression. “ _Swell_ is a great word.”

“So you do that often?”

Rogers blinks, looking cautious. He leans back and seems to bury himself further into his trench coat as he pushes his glasses up. “Do what?”

“Save puppies. Stop petty thieves. Must think of yourself as some kind of superhero.”

Rogers frowns, looking at the ground. “Not really,” and before Bucky can ask about it, Rogers looks up, his ears pink, “Hey wait, you’re the guy from before… the war veteran!”

Bucky frowns, tensing up. “How do _you_ know?”

“Lucky guess,” Rogers says quickly. “The way you fight and hold yourself gives you away.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, “well, guess it’s obvious…” and he wonders how if this is how he comes across to everyone. Unstable. Back from war. Anyone who looks at him _knows_ , even this Rogers stranger and—

“No, I just hang out with a lot of military people,” Rogers says, finally meeting Bucky’s eye. He’s quiet for a moment before he steps back, “and I just notice a lot of things. Sorry to make you uncomfortable,” he smiles dimly, “and, well, it gets better. Coping, that is. I mean, you’re never the same… but it gets better. And uh, I should go,” Rogers ducks his head, disappearing into the crowd.

Bucky opens his mouth, his brain on a halt before he shouts, “Rogers wait!”

But it’s too late. Rogers has been swallowed by the crowd, an inhaler left on the ground as the only sign he was there.

-

He’s in a mood after that. Doctor Lang is surprised but pleased to see him whistling in the waiting room, even if it’s some dirtier songs than she likes. The cashiers at the grocery look surprised when he doesn’t growl at them and he finds himself going out a bit more.

But it takes one bad day, another night of nightmares and him accidentally breaking his alarm clock with his metal arm for him to go back to brooding and staring at the ceiling. His midnight runs don’t stop. If anything, they increase and he can’t help but feel (bored) restless and his eyes can’t stop checking the corners for trench coats and blond hair…

Bucky runs until he gets blisters on his feet and the soles of his boots stain red.

-

He’s at his wit’s end and if he doesn’t find decent work in a week he won’t be able to stay in New York. He can’t afford the recent rent increases with his pension. He either needs a roommate (and who would even want someone like him for a roommate?) or a job. But the thing is… eighty percent of the time Bucky can’t stand people these days and he’s… he’s afraid of losing… losing control… losing…

What’s the damn point anymore?

He runs. Doesn’t care where he goes as long as it’s not here and—

Bucky feels his foot slip against something and he’s crashing down towards the ground, hands stretched out to catch himself when he feels his right hand’s skin scrape off, taken by the hungry ground. Bucky hisses, cursing whatever made him fall and he looks down at the wet stuff he’s kneeling in.

Wet. Warm.

He squints, looking at the colour of his stained jeans and palms. That colour in the light of the distant streetlamps, it looks… it looks dark. A familiar kind of dark ( _get down Barnes_ ) that makes his heart hammer in his chest because he knows this shade, this smell of iron and it’s, ( _get down Barnes,_ Dum Dum shouts as he pushes Bucky away and then—) oh god, it’s—

Someone is screaming. Who is screaming? Oh. Right. It’s him. It’s him kneeling in a puddle of blood and he’s backing up against the fence and there’s no one else there and where is this blood coming from, gunshots, where are the gunshots, where—

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. You’re in New York. You’re safe. You’re in New York and I’m going to stay with you until you’re alright. Just breathe for me,” a soothing voice whispers to him and Bucky feels himself trying to breathe in tune with the comforting words but it’s so hard. He keeps seeing _that_ and he remembers what he did, he remembers that he doesn’t deserve to be here because he fucking, he’s a monster who fucking—

“It’s okay. You’re gonna be alright. Just breathe,” the voice says again and Bucky gives out a bitter laugh.

“No, no,” he shakes, “no, it’s not gonna be okay, I’m not okay—”

“That’s alright too,” the voice says again as gentle as ever. “You don’t have to be okay. Just let it out.”

Bucky lets out another dark laugh. No. No. No one says that. They all expect him to be better. They look at him and they see another Bucky, all happy and flirty and smooth but that Bucky doesn’t exist anymore and the person he is now, he doesn’t even recognize. No one recognizes him. No one wants him. There’s no way that’s alright—

“You don’t have to be okay… and that’s okay too,” the voice says and Bucky just—

He calms down later. Enough to be coherent again and take a few deep breaths before turning to stare at the guy crouching next to him.

He almost laughs again at the universe’s sense of humour.

“You again, Rogers?”

Rogers just looks at him, his hands crumpled tightly against his knees. Glasses crookedly and ready to fall off his face. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says roughly, “I’m fine. Sorry. I just...”

“Hey, it happens,” Rogers replies lightly. “Do you need anything? Is there anyone you want me to call?”

“ _No,_ no,” Bucky shakes his head. He’d hate to trouble Doctor Lang when she thinks he’s making progress. If he saw her disappointed again, he might have another panic attack. There’s no one he needs to call about anything. He doesn’t have any friends anymore (anyone alive, anyways) and his family is nonexistent so there’s nothing else he needs to say, nothing at all but—“ _Blood!_ ”

Rogers’s brow furrows.

“There was blood! All over the ground, I, I think someone’s hurt!”

“I already called 911 when I saw you collapse here,” Rogers assures him. “They’ll be here any second now.”

As if on cue, sirens ring out in the distance.

Bucky starts to get up on wobbly legs, starts walking in the direction of the blood but a hand on his sleeve stops him.

“Wait,” says Rogers, shaking his head, “we don’t want to contaminate the evidence.”

“Evidence? What evidence? Someone’s hurt—”

Rogers’s eyes go glossy. “I’m sorry but… not anymore. They’re dead.”

-

 _Dead,_ Bucky thinks as he sits back against the cement and officers arrive on the scene, flashing their annoying red and blue lights. _Dead,_ he thinks as he remembers Dum Dum’s cold hands as Bucky tried stupidly to drag his friend across the sand. _Dead,_ he thinks as he remembers wishing he were dead when the enemy captured him.

Rogers doesn’t leave Bucky’s side throughout the whole investigation. He doesn’t crowd Bucky or hover. Just… stands nearby and gives Bucky gentle looks. Hands Bucky a shock blanket and coaxes some warm tea into him. He has a way of speaking that makes Bucky… well, not want to lash out.

It’s nice.

But enough of that.

Bucky gets up, throwing the blanket off his shoulders and scans the area, looking for Rogers. He doesn’t linger on the image of the little boy, cut up in pieces, scattered all over the alley way or the trail of blood all over the dirt. He doesn’t linger on the suspicious glances that other cops give him for the deranged way that he looks at everyone and for finding the body.

No, just look for Rogers. Rogers… he just… he makes everyone quiet. Calm. Find him.

Bucky’s feet automatically trail over to the shade of blond in the dark until he sees Rogers speaking with a taller police officer with curly brown hair.

“…don’t know if I should, Peggy. Won’t Phillips get pissed again? You know I’ll do it for free…”

“Don’t you finish that sentence, Steve,” she crosses her arms. “You’re our consultant whether Phillips likes it or not and I’ll pay you an honest fee. Now, what do you make of all this?”

Rogers fiddles with his glasses, glancing around at the crime scene before he meets eyes with Bucky and starts towards him. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” Bucky blurts out. “What the hell is going on here?”

Rogers and the police woman exchange glances, Rogers looking cautious and the officer shrugging before she offers a hand.

“I’m Officer Peggy Carter and you’ve met Steve. Unfortunately, you’ve come across one of the latest victims of the Surgeon.”

“The Surgeon?!”

“A serial killer,” Rogers says quietly. “He’s behind most of the disappearances of children in downtown New York lately… and he’s been leaving their bodies in alleyways for the NYPD to find. Officer Carter and her division have been trying to catch him for the past month.”

“ _We_ have been trying to catch him. Together,” Carter nudges Rogers with her foot.

“Right,” Rogers winces.

“You?! Wait, so you’re a cop too?” Bucky looks dubiously at Rogers’s thin form.

“Hey, I can handle a pistol just fine,” Rogers frowns, “the cop life just isn’t for me. No offense, Peggy.”

“None taken.”

“Then what do you—”

“Steve here is a consultant for the NYPD,” Carter explains with some pride in her tone, “he’s an independent detective.”

Rogers turns pink. “Peggy, I ain’t no detective. I just do odd jobs here and there.”

Carter just rolls her eyes. “Anyways, while we couldn’t save this boy tonight, we’re hoping to find some clues with the latest victim. Your testimony would be greatly appreciated Mister…?”

Bucky blinks at her dubiously. “Barnes. James Barnes.”

“You don’t need to say anything if it makes you uncomfortable,” Rogers cuts in. “I was here too so that should be enough information to go on.”

“Steve—”

“Peggy, its fine.”

“I slipped,” Bucky interrupts, making Carter and Rogers stop to stare at him. “I was running—I run, a lot, can’t really sleep—and I just… slipped. I thought, I thought it was water at first but when I looked down it was… it was blood and I…”

“Okay,” Rogers says quietly. “Thank you for telling us.”

He turns to walk towards the body and Bucky snaps out of his own daze. “Hey wait, what are you…?”

Rogers turns back, that sad smile back on his face. “Gonna look at the body. Find some clues,” and then he ducks under the yellow tape to stare thoughtfully under the plastic wrap covering the… the boy.

Bucky doesn’t realize that he’s staring at Rogers until Carter makes a polite sound besides him.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. No one should have to.”

Bucky’s fists tighten, “…I’ve seen worse. Dunno why it bothered me now.” The shock probably. Seeing something that shouldn’t belong in the city. New York is supposed to be the old Bucky’s haven but instead it’s a graveyard with little children’s corpses and Bucky wonders why he even bothered fighting in the army at all.

The sick thing is that this is the most exciting thing to happen to him since he saw Rogers last and part of him… _enjoys that_. Is this what boredom has done to him? The monotony? Christ, he’s fucked up if he needs to be around more murder to feel sane again.

“From my experience, no one should have to get used to seeing that. And if they have… well… I suppose it would take extreme emotional circumstances to make them relive their past traumas.”

“You sound like my therapist. She’d like you. _Extreme emotional circumstances,_ huh? I guess being evicted out of your apartment counts,” _and seeing the body._ Bucky can’t stop looking over at Rogers and that tarp. Can’t stop imagining the corpse underneath and wanting to beat the sicko who did this.

Carter, to her credit, doesn’t make any noises of sympathy nor does she offer to talk about it. Bucky likes her already. She’s actually studying him, for a moment, before she says, “You know… the rent to Steve’s apartment has gone up. I think he’s looking for a roommate. The rent is pretty affordable for one person but Steve has other expenses he needs to use his budget on. Could be a good fit for you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky’s jaw nearly drops. “You just met me, hell, I hardly know the guy, and you’re suggesting we move in together? I could be a serial killer for all you know. He needs someone who has his back, someone not…” _unstable._

Carter’s lips curl up into a smile, “Oh, I think you might be what he needs.”

“No,” Bucky protests. “I have issues. He doesn’t need to deal with that crap.”

“Oh come off it,” Carter rolls her eyes, “everyone has their monsters and Steve seemed to handle yours pretty well. I won’t push you but I would wait and talk to him first before you make a decision… you might change your mind and ask him yourself.”

Bucky has a thousand more protests ready to spill from his lips, many of them the same variation of what he said earlier, but that’s when Rogers calls out, “Peggy!” and waves her over.

Carter looks at Bucky thoughtfully again before she says, “Come with me, Barnes. You don’t want to miss this.”

-

Rogers looks alarmed when he sees Bucky standing by the covered body as well. “Peggy, I thought civilians weren’t allowed at the scene of the crime.”

“He seems alright. It’s not like he’s the murderer, now is he?”

“Of course not!” Rogers flails his arms up, “I’m just worried about what Phillips will say to you if he finds out—”

“I know what I’m doing, Steve—”

“—and if this is another ploy that you and Natasha cooked up, I’m not gonna go along with it. No one would want to put up with my crap. Please don’t rope James into it—”

“Bucky.”

They pause.

“It’s Bucky,” he says.

Rogers pushes his glasses up. “Bucky, then,” he says softly, making Bucky’s chest flutter (in the most inconvenient place, honestly.)

Carter has her hands up, “No schemes, I swear.”

Rogers only sighs. “Feel free to step away if you feel triggered,” he tells them both, and then he uncovers the body.

Maybe it’s because Bucky’s mentally prepared for it, but he doesn’t throw up at the sight of the blood this time. He feels oddly numb, seeing such a small little body turned up with wrists slashed neatly and something in Bucky wants to beat up whoever would drive a kid to… to slit their own wrists but…

“I thought you said this was the work of the Surgeon.”

Rogers blinks up at him, as if from a trance, before looking back down at the body. “It is. The cuts are too neat, precise for efficient bleeding… and if you… well if you look under his shirt… well…” Rogers closes his eyes and mutters a quiet apology before he puts on some plastic gloves and carefully lifts up the kid’s shirt.

There, Bucky can see cuts in the kid’s chest. Stomach. Where all the organs should be. His fists tighten, he hears gunfire again, but its background noise. More like how he was back then, in the army, focused on the sniper target and breathing in and out, slowly, waiting for the target, the order, to shoot—

“He’s from the Westside Orphanage,” Rogers’ quiet voice breaks through Bucky’s trance. “They’re the only ones who give their kids this kind of uniform with this fabric. It’s cheap and easy to afford and they want to maintain the appearance of being a ‘professional organization.’ You should call them and see if they have a child missing recently, the uniform is still pretty new and he doesn’t look like a street kid…” Rogers looks down at the kid’s damp clothes and then look something up in his phone. “He was probably travelling through this neighbourhood,” he points at a map on his phone, “about two hours ago when he was taken.”

“Wait, how do you—”

“Only neighbourhood that rained in the last two hours. You can tell by how damp his clothes are and he doesn’t smell like antiseptic or anything, just alleyways and the Surgeon usually kills in location and then drops the bodies elsewhere, doesn’t bother to clean them up or anything so he wasn’t killed indoors,” Rogers continues softly.

Bucky just stares and Rogers looks away, to Carter.

“You might want to check Al’s convenience store too, the kid shoplifted this from him, possibly just before he was attacked,” Rogers passes her a pack of cigarettes.

“How do you know it’s from his store?”

“I don’t. It’s just the most likely place. Only store that sells those around that block. Also Al’s place always smells like too much peppermint, see?” Rogers hands him the cigarettes and Bucky can definitely catch a strong whiff of peppermint.

Carter is already phoning the two places that Rogers has mentioned and when she gets off the phone she grins, “I’ve got a name. The orphanage has been missing a kid named Jesse Montague and your friend Al has kindly agreed to let us look through his video surveillance footage. He also remembers a child of Mr. Montague’s description so that should set us on the right track for this investigation.”

Rogers’ shoulders slump down in relief. “Thank goodness.”

“What?” Bucky’s jaw drops, “Were you doubting yourself? That was out of this world! Are you psychic or something?”

Rogers’ ears go pink. “Um. No. Just… good at deductions. And there’s always a chance you could be wrong. I just know the neighbourhood pretty well.”

Carter rolls her eyes. “Don’t let him fool you. Steve here is our walking reference book for the city. Why waste time getting teams of people to sift through data when Steve has it memorized?”

“It’s nothing,” he insists and Bucky can’t help but punch him lightly in the shoulder.

“It’s damn _something_. Christ, Rogers.”

The punk actually ducks his head down, like a turtle, burying his head further in the collar of his Trenchcoat.

“Ah. Thanks. So,” Rogers coughs and turns back to Carter, “if you need more of my help, just give me a call.”

“Will do. You boys need a ride home?”

“Well—”

“Actually,” Bucky cuts in, catching Rogers’ sleeve, “I, uh, well I wanted to ask you something.”

Carter hides her smile behind her hand. “I’ll leave you two alone then.”

Right then.

Bucky faces Rogers and the punk’s damn curious face, silently cursing Carter for abandoning them like that.

“Are you okay?” Rogers looks like he’ll jump to do anything to make Bucky more comfortable and for the first time since he came back to New York, Bucky feels like maybe… maybe he’ll be okay. As long as he keeps hanging around this kid.

“Yeah, yeah… well, not okay. Not after seeing _that_. But… better,” Bucky runs his hand through his hair. “Listen. Uh, Carter mentioned that you… might need a roommate? And well, my lease for my apartment… in about a week if I don’t…”

“Sure!”

Bucky blinks.

Rogers looks down at his feet and smiles, “Sure, I’d love to have you as a roommate. I mean, if you’ll have me. I’m kind of…”

“What? Are _you_ sure? We barely know each other. I’m a war vet with a shit load of issues and a temper and PTSD and an arm I can barely function with!”

“Well you asked first. And I’m a weird guy with basically no steady income, who runs around doing odd jobs and has a shit load of health problems and his own issues so I think we might make a good fit.”

Bucky just stares at him, a slow grin making its way across his face.

“You sure about this, punk? I’m a bitch to live with.”

Rogers shrugs and just holds out his hand. “I have my days too.”

Yeah right, Bucky wants to snort, but he can’t help himself. He starts to laugh. He saw one of the worst fucking things in his life today and somehow, maybe, he can get through it. And maybe Rogers will kick him out and get sick of his company but right now?

Bucky takes the Rogers’ hand. He’ll take this chance.

“Show me around then, punk.”

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter features bucky and steve being domestic, bucky tackling some of steve's issues, steve tackling some of bucky's issues, two idiots trying to take care of each other and an ever cliched serial killer
> 
> EDIT 01/01/15: Thanks Karrett for pointing out my typos!


End file.
